Free Treasury of Joy & Inspiration by Editors Of Reader's Digest Page A

leave, and I’d lie there and stare at the wall, stare at the future, stare in disbelief.
    When I would finally fall asleep, I’d be whole again, making love to Dana, riding or acting in a play. Then I’d wake up and realize that I could no longer do any of that; I was just taking up space.
    One day Dana came into the room and stood beside me. I could not talk because of the ventilator. But as we made eye contact, I mouthed the words, “Maybe we should let me go.”
    Dana started crying. “I am only going to say this once,” she said. “I will support whatever you want to do because this is your life and your decision. But I want you to know that I’ll be with you for the long haul, no matter what.”
    Then she added the words that saved my life: “You’re still you. And I love you.”
    I can’t drift away from this, I began to realize. I don’t want to leave.
    A crisis like my accident doesn’t change a marriage; it brings out what is truly there. It intensifies but does not transform it. Dana rescued me when I was lying in Virginia with a broken body, but that was really the second time. The first time was the night we met.
    It was June 1987, and a long-term relationship of mine had ended. I was determined to be alone and focus on my work. Since childhood I had developed the belief that a few isolated moments of happiness were the best you could hope for in relationships. I didn’t want to risk too much because I was certain that disappointment would follow.
    Then one night I went to a cabaret with friends, and Dana Morosini stepped onstage. She wore an off-the-shoulder dress and sang “The Music That Makes Me Dance.” I went down hook, line and sinker.
    Afterward I went backstage and introduced myself. At the time, I was an established film actor. You wouldn’t think I’d have a problem with a simple conversation with a woman. But when I offered her a ride to the party we were all going to, she said, “No thanks, I have my own car.” All I could say was “Oh.” I dragged myself out to my old pickup truck, trying to plan my next move.
    Later I tried again. We talked for a solid hour. I have no idea what we talked about. Everything seemed to evaporate around us. I thought to myself, I don’t want to make a mistake and ruin this.
    We started dating in a very old-fashioned way. I got to know Dana’s parents, and we developed an easy rapport. And Dana was instantly comfortable with my two children, Matthew and Alexandra. It filled me with joy.
    Dana and I were married in April 1992. Three years later came my accident and Dana’s words in the hospital room: “You’re still you.”
    I mouthed, “This goes way beyond the marriage vows—‘in sickness and in health.’ ” She said, “I know.” I knew then and there that she was going to be with me forever. We had become a family.
    As the operation drew closer, I became more frightened, knowing I had only a 50-50 chance of surviving. I lay frozen much of the time, thinking dark thoughts.
    My biggest fear had to do with breathing. I couldn’t take a single breath on my own, and the ventilator connections didn’t always hold. I would lie there at three in the morning in fear of a pop-off, when the hose just comes off the ventilator. After you’ve missed two breaths, an alarm sounds. You hope someone will come quickly. The feeling of helplessness was hard to take.
    One very bleak day the door to my room flew open and in hurried a squat fellow in a surgical gown and glasses, speaking with a Russian accent. He said he was my proctologist and had to examine me immediately.
    My first thought was that they must be giving me way too many drugs. But it was my old friend, comedian Robin Williams. For the first time since the accident, I laughed.
    My three-year-old, Will, also gave me hope. One day he was on the floor playing when he